


The Ghost of Grimmauld Place

by Maerchenlaenderin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath, Forgotten Hero - Freeform, Master of Death (Harry Potter), The Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:54:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23900389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maerchenlaenderin/pseuds/Maerchenlaenderin
Summary: After he had killed Voldemort, he had been celebrated, of course, but the human mind was a fickle thing. Trying their hardest to forget the horrors of the war, he, too, had been forced into obscurity.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	The Ghost of Grimmauld Place

Never before had Harry considered the consequences of having owned all three of the Deathly Hallows at one point in his life. Besides surviving that awful day when he had… well… died.  
He had broken the Elder Wand, had thrown away the Resurrection Stone and had only held on to the Invisibility Cloak out of some misguided form of nostalgia.

So how come it had to hit him NOW of all times, when he thought he couldn’t sink any lower? 

Ginny had broken up with him, after having pushed back their wedding for several years, to jump into bed with KRUM of all people.  
Hermione and Ron had four children to take care of, and he hadn’t heard more than a “not now, we’ll call you later” from them for eight months now.  
He’d had more contact with Luna and Neville, who had moved to New Zealand to study the magical plants and creatures that had developed independently on the surrounding pacific islands, far out of range for normal wizarding messaging systems.  
And Teddy… Teddy refused to even see him. The thirteen-year-old had broken off all contact once he had found out how his parents had died. Harry’s heart still ached from the accusations of him being responsible for their deaths. 

And who else was there?

After he had killed Voldemort, he had been celebrated, of course, but the human mind was a fickle thing. Trying their hardest to forget the horrors of the war, he, too, had been forced into obscurity.  
Not that he minded leaving his fame behind, quite the contrary, but to be pushed out of the lives of even his dearest friends…

It hurt.

Every letter returned unopened, every pair of eyes quickly averted was like an ice-cold dagger to his gut and a burning pain deep inside of his chest. 

He had been at his lowest, yes, but he had still… been. 

Now…?  
Now… he was… not so much. 

Like a ghost he floated through Grimmauld Place number 12, walls and doors no obstacles for his incorporeal form. The only things he could interact with were the ones that had followed him into this ghost-like state: the clothes he had worn, a comfortable set of everyday robes, slightly stained by fire whiskey on the bottom of his left sleeve, the Invisibility Cloak that had permanently attached itself to his shoulders, the Resurrection Stone he couldn’t seem to let go of, and the Elder Wand, mysteriously whole again and permanently fixed onto his right hand. 

One week had gone by like this.  
This was his life now. A ghost in an empty house, a warrior, useless in times of peace, thrown away and forgotten as to not remind the public of darker times. 

Two weeks had gone by like this.  
Two weeks of him floating through a house he knew from top to bottom, with nothing to do, no one to talk to, just… him, floating from room to room, trying not to notice how even his translucent mockery of a body kept growing paler and paler. 

Three weeks had gone by like this.  
He was disappearing, he knew this.  
Day after day after day something absorbed the very essence of his being, since it wasn’t just… It wasn’t just his body that was vanishing bit by bit, he also noticed gaps in his memories. Not that noticeable at first, but then… had he outflown a dragon in his third year…? Or his fourth? Dumbledore had fought in the last stand of Hogwarts, had he not…?

Four weeks had gone by like this.  
Who was that young boy with the vibrant purple hair on that picture, pulling grimaces at the camera?  
Why did he have that picture framed next to his friends and his parents?

Five weeks had gone by like this.  
Who was that couple in the photo near the fireplace? Him, a little bit pudgy, a smudge of dirt on his cheek, her, wild blond hair and a bowtruckle on her shoulder… He had never seen them before. 

Six weeks had gone by like this.  
There was a big poster of a young man on the wall, sitting on a broom and smiling broadly. His dark hair long, his grey-blue eyes sparkling in mischief. He could see a younger version of his father’s in the background, but who was that man?

Seven weeks had gone by like this.  
“Harry? Harry!”  
A woman stood in the entrance hall of his home, her bushy brown hair looking like birds had been nesting in it for three seasons at the very least.  
“Harry, where are you?”

“Who are you?”, he asked, his voice weirdly thin and lifeless, but… he supposed it had always been like that.  
“Harry…? What… what has happened to you?!”  
Horror edged in her pretty face. 

“Who… who is this Harry, you speak of…? This is my home. I am home. I alone am home in my home. There is no Harry here.”

He floated away from the woman, the weird noises leaving her throat muffled by the mists that kept following him.

Eight weeks had gone by like this.  
Grimmauld Place number 12 lay silent.

**Author's Note:**

> Weirdly enough, when I started writing, I had been planning on a Tomarry fanfiction.  
> ...  
> Well.  
> I mean, I still could...
> 
> For now, this is going to be a oneshot, though, and maybe, if I get hit by another plot-bludger, I will continue this and take it in the direction I'd actually intended it to go.


End file.
